


Direct From The Source

by Scruggzi, whopooh



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M, october bonus prompt, we need to get warm, you are what you write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-26 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12565180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scruggzi/pseuds/Scruggzi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/whopooh/pseuds/whopooh
Summary: Having had some success writing stories for a women’s magazine, Dot is considering taking up a career in teaching. She has been introduced to the idea of ‘automatism’ by Phryne’s friend Miss Charlesworth, and decides to experiment on Phryne, Jack and Hugh. The assignment is to write a story with the prompt:“We need to get warm.”“At the South Pole they recommend skin to skin contact…”Jack is fairly sure Miss Fisher must have had a hand in the choice of that prompt.





	Direct From The Source

“Remind me again why we’re doing this, Miss Fisher?” Jack asked as he sat down next to Phryne on the chaise in her parlour.

“Why, to further Dot’s career of course, Jack,” Phryne said with her sunniest and most innocent smile.

Chairs and chaise had been put together in the parlour to form a circle with a table in the middle. There were four of them there – Phryne, Jack, Hugh, and Dot herself. The light was slightly dimmed to create a cosy atmosphere. Low, unobtrusive classical music could be heard, floating quietly from the gramophone and thanks to Mr Butler, they each had their favorite drink in front of them. The atmosphere reminded Jack of the case when they had a séance in Phryne’s dining room; his sceptical mind hadn’t particularly enjoyed that, but at least it had allowed him to hold her hand for quite some time.

“She’s shown some prowess as a writer and wondered if a teaching role might be something for her. Miss Charlesworth had some excellent ideas of combining teaching and the surrealistic idea of ‘automatism’, and Dot really needs people to experiment on.”

“So, we’re guinea pigs,” Jack said, and it was impossible to tell if he was amused or just resigned.

“It’ll be fun, Jack,” Phryne said with a smile, putting her hand on top of his for a second just to make him flinch ever so slightly, ignoring his chastising look.

Dot cleared her throat.

“Thank you so much for coming here,” she said to the three in front of her. She had decided to include more people next time, but she wanted to start small. “I’m new at this and rather nervous, but I will try. Of course, with a real group, I would have already talked about story structure, so you’ll just have to imagine that.”

Hugh tried to imagine stories having structure, but the only thing his mind came up with was images of buildings. He internally sighed at himself; he wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing. He just hoped he wouldn’t disappoint Dottie too much.

“What I want you to do is try to write in an automatic fashion,” Dot continued. “Empty your mind and let visions and ideas just happen, without you actively trying to make up a story. Let it flood your mind, and whatever comes up, just grab the pen and let the words flow out on the paper. Don’t read what you’ve written, don’t stop to think, just let it come out uncensored.”

Jack cast a glance at Phryne by his side.

“Sounds dangerous.” His deep, suggestive tone made Phryne’s smile a little bit more mischievous, and Dot’s skin a little bit pinker.

“I assure you, Inspector, this is a method that comes highly recommended all the way from France. Miss Charlesworth had it taught to her in Sydney by a wonderfully interesting lady, who usually lives in the most elevated cultural circles in Paris.”

Phryne’s eyes glittered with anticipation.

“That sounds wonderful, Dot.”

Dot handed them blank papers and reservoir pens of the highest quality.

“This is all you need,” she said, and it was obvious she searched for phrases she had learned by heart: “Put yourself in an almost dreamlike state. _Your tools_ are the pen and the paper. _Your source_ is your imagination and your subconscious. Put the tools and the source together, and you will _strike gold_.”

Jack gripped his pen and put it to the paper to create a doodle, but all he could see was the normal kind of black ink.

“Is that all?” Phryne asked.

Dot fumbled with her papers and skimmed them, sighing.

“No, I forgot one part. You have your _tool_ and your _source_ , but you also need your _prompt_.”

“Prompt?” Hugh asked, trying to contribute to the conversation.

“That is what creates focus for the journey into the depth of your inner source,” Dot explained. “It could be an image, a word, a song, or a smell. This time, I have decided to give you a short dialogue, since we’re all beginners.”

Hugh’s huge eyes radiated relief. He was grateful he wouldn’t have to find something to pour out of his _inner source_ from something as ephemeral as a smell.

“Here they are,” Dot said and pulled out a stack of cards. “Please, Miss, will you pick one of these without looking at what’s written on it.”

She held out the stack like a fan in front of Phryne, who took some time deliberating over it and finally, with an overly elegant gesture, chose a card from the lower end.

“ _Voilà_ , Dot,” she said as she presented the card.

“This dialogue will be your prompt. When I’ve read it, I want you to close your eyes and think of the words for a few minutes, and then set your pen on paper and start writing. Don’t look at each other. Don’t think. Just write.”

Then she read aloud:

_“We need to get warm.”  
“At the South Pole they recommend skin to skin contact…” _

Dot blushed, but tried to keep her professional air. A teacher needed to be good at improvisation. There was nothing odd with some of the prompts having innuendo, she supposed, but she hadn’t even been aware this one was in her deck. If she looked closely at it, it seemed to be written on a slightly different paper too.

Jack glanced at Phryne with an incredulous look. ‘You stacked that deck, didn’t you?’ his eloquently quirked eyebrow asked. ‘Who knows,’ her slightly exaggerated shrug answered. She did know how to do magic tricks, after all. When she was young, she’d been a very attentive pupil.

Hugh looked at Dot, slightly horrified.

“Skin?” he asked.

“Ssssh,” Dot replied. “Close your eyes. Just settle into the feeling.”

She turned up the music slightly and sat down with her tea and knitting, watching the three of them obediently close their eyes and think, and only one of them – Phryne – cheating a little to see if the others really followed the instructions. When Dot caught her eye and looked stern, Phryne closed her eyes again and settled comfortably against the corner of the chaise.

After a while, Dot said with her softest voice:

“Now write – anything that comes to mind, there is no right or wrong.”

All three of her pupils put pen to paper and started writing. Dot beamed and sipped her tea.

Half an hour later, she asked them to stop. Hugh sat up straight and blinked, as if he had just woken up from a trance. Phryne looked like the cat that ate the canary. Jack was frowning as he glanced down on his own hardly legible scrawl.

“What now?” Phryne asked, still sounding delighted.

“You give the texts to me, and I will read them aloud for you.”

Jack looked horrified and started to object, but Dot cut through the complaints:

“No, that’s wrong. You exchange the papers and read each other’s aloud.”

Jack looked like he wanted to hide his paper away and pretend it had never existed, but before he was able to do anything about it, Phryne had stolen it from him with a bright smile. She handed her own to Hugh, who didn’t have any choice but to give his to Jack.

“Don’t read ahead, just read as you go,” Dot encouraged. “Hugh, would you mind starting with Miss Fisher’s story?”

Hugh looked down at the paper as if there was a chance it might bite his fingers off, which, given the author, was a distinct possibility. Only a deep and abiding love for his fiancée could have convinced him it was a good idea to read something Miss Fisher had written to that prompt, even in the privacy of his own head.

As he began to read aloud, his deep misgivings about the activity could be heard in every tremulous syllable. Phryne felt a little sorry for him, but… She flicked her eyes over at Jack. He was looking back at her steadily, with the face of a man who knew exactly what he was in for and did not intend to react. Well, they would soon see about that. And really, she couldn’t be blamed for a little collateral damage given that kind of provocation. All’s fair in love and literature, after all.

Hugh cleared his throat and began to read.

> _The night was cold and crisp, the stars scattered across the… the firmament like diamonds on black velvet. The chill seeped through the ancient stone walls of the castle keep to where the Duchess sat, resplendent in silk and satin in her bedchamber. She shivered, despite the fire in the ancient wrought iron fireplace and looked up at the man who had just entered the room, bringing a further draught of cold air with him._
> 
> _“You sent for me, your Grace?”_
> 
> _“Captain. Thank you for joining me.”_
> 
> _He waited at attention, ever the patient soldier, while his mistress looked him over carefully. There was power there, and loyalty, beauty too. Yes. He would do nicely; she circled around him, her eyes devouring him from the strong lines of his face to the…_

Hugh went bright red and stopped reading abruptly, glancing in horror towards Miss Fisher and then towards Dottie. They couldn’t really expect him to read this, could they? Phryne took pity on him, whipping the paper out of his hands before he could protest. Not that he especially wanted to.

“Oh Miss, Hugh’s supposed to read…” Dot began weakly, but Phryne interrupted her.

“No problem, Dot. I’m happy to step in.”

As Hugh was now giving her a pleading look, Dot decided not to argue and instead concentrated hard on not blushing. Phryne, meanwhile, had turned her most mischievous smile towards the Inspector, who met her gaze with a carefully dispassionate expression which it was taking considerable effort to maintain. She was almost sure she could make it crack, and she certainly intended to try; summoning up a low suggestive voice that caressed each word as it passed her lips, she continued the story.

> _She circled around him, her eyes devouring him from the strong lines of his face to the taut muscles of his arms, wandering down to his muscular thighs and admirable behind. Such a welcome change from the tiresome knights and nobles she was normally forced to endure._
> 
> _“They tell me the cold weather is here to stay. Winter is finally upon us, Captain.”_
> 
> _It wasn’t news, they had been preparing the castle and its occupants for the dark months since the last days of summer. He almost smiled at her but otherwise made no reply._
> 
> _“We need to keep warm,” she whispered, standing close but still not touching him._
> 
> _He did smile then, slowly, like the rising sap of a spring they would all be lucky to see. He had some experience in these matters after all._
> 
> _“At the South Pole, they recommend skin to skin contact,” he told her, a little too serious to be taken seriously._
> 
> _The Duchess bit her lip in satisfaction, before rising on her toes in silken slippers, capturing the captain’s mouth to burn away the frost with a kiss._

Phryne’s voice stilled, and Dot and Hugh watched awkwardly as their bosses appeared trapped in each other’s gaze; Phryne’s smile was unapologetically suggestive, Jack’s mouth barely twitching at the corners, failing to hide his amusement by the tiniest hint of movement. Phryne was the first to break the contact, shrugging, cat-like, apparently satisfied with the outcome of this experiment. Dot got a grip on herself, determined not to let embarrassment get in the way of encouraging her pupil.

“That’s very good Miss, very… um… descriptive,” she stammered out, not sure if she should feel pleased that one of her students had taken to the task so well, or worried that she did not feel entirely in control of this exercise anymore. “Now, if you would read out the Inspector’s story.”

Jack had been doing fairly well up till this point, meeting Miss Fisher’s eyes unflinchingly. He had permitted himself to get just a little lost in the sound of her voice as she read out her story; it was so clearly designed to provoke him he could almost ignore the images that flashed unbidden across his mind. Almost.

At the sound of Miss Williams’ instruction, he was suddenly brought back to reality. Phryne had the great satisfaction of seeing his jaw clench as she pulled the paper out with a flourish and eyed the first paragraph for a second. With a slightly squeaky voice, a little reminiscent of American, she started to read:

> _They say that if you put a frog in cool water and then slowly raise the temperature, the poor fellow won’t know it’s done for until it’s far too late. Out in the vast silence of the desert, Harry Davis began to feel the first bubbles of the boiling water around his ears._
> 
> _It had all gone so well for the first few days, the weather had been hot – naturally – but it had been clear and the slow progression of the caravan across the dunes had been a gentle adventure. His guides were weather-beaten men with the desert in their very bones, who could sense a storm in the smell of the wind. When the sandstorm had finally hit them, it had of course been his horse that had bolted. In the stinging miasma that battered at his face and choked his lungs, he couldn’t be sure of how far away from the group he had strayed, but he was almost certain that he heard, clear and sharp across the wind tossed dunes, the sound of gunfire._
> 
> _That had been a day ago. The storm itself had abated, leaving him alone and with enough water to last him only another day and a half if he was very prudent. He had no idea in which direction he should travel, but he tried to chart his course by the sun to come back to the caravan trail. He patted the pistol at his belt; if there was trouble, he would be ready for it._
> 
> _Fool. The kind of trouble he was heading for could not be fought with bullets._

Phryne paused for a moment to sip some whiskey.

“Very descriptive, Jack,” she said in her normal voice.

Hugh’s mouth was slightly agape. How had his Inspector managed to write all that – and in just half an hour? How could he know so much about the desert, and how could he sound like a cowboy?

“Finally, it seems the lone man meets a woman,” Phryne said teasingly. She went back to her reading voice:

> _Elizabeth found him examining the body of two men on the borders of the trail he had managed to find again. One he knew as Jose, the other was a stranger, dead from a pistol wound to the head._
> 
> _“Bandits. I shot three of them. Most of your friends got away.” He would know that voice anywhere._
> 
> _Harry whipped his head around and there she was; as he should have known she would be.  
>  “I thought you were in the city,” he said, gratefully accepting the canteen of water she passed to him._
> 
> _“And leave you out here having all the fun by yourself? Not a chance.”_
> 
> _She could have fled with the others, got herself to safety. If she was out here, it was because she had come back to look for him. There might have been a time when that would have made him angry. These days, he was blessed with more gratitude and less self-preservation._
> 
> _“Not exactly how I would describe the experience,” he nodded towards the bodies at his feet._
> 
> _“It’s getting dark, we should pitch a camp and be on our way in the morning. It’s less than a day to go, but I don’t trust you to make it in one piece without me.” She was baiting him, as always._
> 
> _He glanced up at the horizon; they were in a valley and the sun was already hidden behind the high ridge of the closest dune. The light was a rosey golden glow, like the dying embers of a fire._
> 
> _“We need to keep warm,” he observed, without thinking the words through._
> 
> _She grinned at him, jumping on the comment like a cat on a mouse. “At the South Pole, they recommend skin to skin contact.”_
> 
> _There was no getting out of the pot now, and the water was starting to boil._

Phryne stopped reading with a neutral look that obviously suppressed a smile. That was really gratifying; she rather liked to think of herself as dangerous, and she certainly enjoyed the idea of her riding to the rescue. Jack’s expression was still giving away slightly more than he intended it to; the two of them barely remembered at this point that the others were still in the room. Hugh, on the other hand, felt acutely embarrassed, thinking about his own feeble attempt compared to the others’ elaborate stories.

“Perhaps we don’t need to read mine,” he suggested. “It’s getting a bit late, isn’t it –”

“Of course we’ll read everyone’s stories, Hugh,” Dot interrupted him, “that’s an important part of the exercise.” 

“I didn’t realise we were supposed to write a real story,” Hugh murmured.

“There are no rules, Hugh. Please, Inspector, do you mind?” Dot’s look was stern enough that Hugh and Jack both obeyed. Jack cleared his throat and read: 

> _South pole, is that white? Yes, that must be it. White. Alright, I am settling myself in the feeling: I feel white. Obliterated, empty, innocent. Blank. Like my mind when I get a tricky question from the Inspector._

Jack coughed self-consciously, but managed to compose himself rather quickly. He continued reading, pausing only where the writing turned almost unintelligible.

> _Like this sheet of paper before me. Like the snow dunes on Antarctica. Yes, I’m in Antarctica. There is wind, I am cold. I turn around but there is nothing to see, not even penguins and they should really be at the south pole, shouldn’t they?_
> 
> _Now I’m in a train. The train is standing still. I follow the long aisle, it’s still cold but not so bright anymore. Just when I feel like I’ll be alone forever in this compartment of aisles I see the most beautiful sight I have ever seen. It’s a young woman in a robe and with her hair down, as if she’s about to go to sleep. She smiles brightly at me, and a little shyly, and I know she could take my heart and do anything with it, really, I wouldn’t mind one bit. She has the brightest smile and when she tells me we really need to get warm…_
> 
> _I don’t really know how to continue this story, do I? Oh, I wish the half hour was up soon so I could stop rambling. Well, there’s still minutes left it seems. When she says we need to get warm, I come to think of something I’ve heard, about keeping warm by skin to skin contact. That really ought to do the trick, wouldn’t it? I wonder if I can say that to this girl, but that would be… Oh, goody, it seems the time really is up. So, The End?_

Hearing his last words read in Jack’s deep voice, Hugh swallowed hard. He hadn’t lived up to the assignment properly. He looked up and met Dot’s eyes, suddenly filled with tears.

“I’m sorry about it not being a real story, Dottie,” he said apologetically.

“Oh Hugh.” She took a deep breath and turned to the others, attempting to sound like a collected school mistress again, but failing slightly. “I think we need to stop for tonight. Thank you, you have been the most helpful pupils.” She quickly rose and collected their glasses and cups on a tray and walked to the door, her legs slightly shaky. “Hugh, would you like to join me for some cocoa?”

As they excited the parlour, both with a mounting sense of relief, Dot turned to her fiancé and asked “Do you really think that, about me? That I could do anything with your heart and you wouldn’t mind?”

Hugh smiled at her, blushing a little but more confident out here and without an audience. “Of course I do, Dottie.”

The smile she gave him then lit up his entire world, just as it had done on the train to Ballarat and every time he had seen it since. Really, he was a very lucky man.

“You know Hugh, I know Miss Charlesworth thinks surrealistic automatism is a very valuable teaching technique, but I’m not sure I’m all that fond of it.”

Hugh followed her into the kitchen, feeling considerable relief that he wouldn’t have to participate in any more embarrassing experiments and looking forward to a calming cup of cocoa.

When the two of them had disappeared, Jack rose too.

“Thank you for an… interesting evening, Miss Fisher,” he said. “Very… enlightening.”

Phryne rose to stand in front of him.

“You’re not leaving so soon, Jack? I was hoping to share the benefits of your literary expertise.”

“You were? You seem to have a certain hidden talent in that area yourself,” he answered. “Although if that story is any indication of your reading habits, I will have to studiously avoid perusing your library, at least while I’m on duty.”

“Very wise, Inspector. I wouldn’t want to be accused of corrupting an officer of the law.”

Jack didn’t even attempt to hide his amusement at that idea; it was ever such a tempting prospect. Phryne took up the sheet of paper on which she had written her story, folded it carefully and tucked it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

“You know, I don’t think my story was quite finished. Perhaps you could provide me with a few suggestions as to how it should continue?”

Somewhere out in the hallway they could hear the sound of the telephone, but the noise seemed very far away.

Jack flinched slightly at her touch, his hand moving up to gently caress her fingers where they had come to rest against his chest.

“I’m sure I could come up with one or two ideas, Miss Fisher.”

It was certainly true. He had imagined so many ways in which they might begin; it was the endings that frightened him, although he was no longer sure if they frightened him enough. The air between them seemed to crackle with anticipation as they waited, each silently daring the other to take that first step over the cliff, and by implication the responsibility, should either or both end up smashed to pieces on the rocks below. They moved closer, just a fraction, the pull between them so strong now that neither was certain who was closing that last, greatest, distance.

“Telephone for you, Inspector.”

The detectives sprang apart as, for the first time in his professional career, Mr Butler’s legendary powers of discretion let him down. Jack bit down on the inside of his cheek to hide his amusement, and Phryne briefly contemplated an entirely unjustified murder.

“Thank you, Mr Butler.” He nodded to his partner with a faintly ironic “Miss Fisher”, acknowledging her slightly apologetic smile.

“Perhaps you should go and rescue your constable from the clutches of literary endeavour?” she suggested.

“Poor Collins. The world of letters can be an intimidating place for the inexperienced. We should probably be getting back to the station.” There were few other reasons why he would be getting a telephone call at this hour after all.

She waved him off towards the hallway, noticing as she turned to pick up her drink that Jack’s story was still sitting beside it on the table. She picked it up and stored it discretely down the front of her décolletage, ruminating that, amongst his many qualities, her Inspector was quite delightfully well read.

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Bonus October prompt, and it's our first time writing a fic together. It has been great fun, and we hope it is for the readers also! The fic started as a continuation of [The Lady in the Magazine](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12390048), where Dot writes stories about a thinly veiled Phryne Fisher. 
> 
> The title is a quote from S2 E2, "Death Comes Knocking", when Jack teases Phryne about the direct source being the spirits of the deceased from the séance.
> 
> Also, the [surrealist idea about automatism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Surrealist_automatism) is a very interesting thing.


End file.
